‘Wait!’ he shouted desperately. ‘I’ve changed my mind – I’m not sailing after all. Hold it just one second – please!’
A score of startled heads looked up – crewmen, other passengers – some relishing the prospect of a drama. He hadn’t time to be embarrassed, but hurtled down the stairs and along the final stretch of deck. The gangplank was still in place, thank God, though a burly man in uniform was trying to bar his way, barking some reproof He ducked under the rope, shouting an apology, then clattered down the gangplank and on across the quay, almost tripping on the wet and slippery surface.
He arrived breathless in the waiting-room and made straight for the nearest phone booth. He dialled the Streatham number, praying Penny was alone. He was longing to tell her how he’d missed her; how even during the funeral service he’d been thinking of her body, remembering how they’d …
‘Shit!’ he muttered furiously, raging not at Penny but at her bloody stupid phone. Why did no one answer it? He slammed down the receiver, slumped against the wall. He must be out of his mind: he’d missed his crossing and she wasn’t even there. She was obviously away from home – and probably with Phil. He had tried a dozen times already in the last four frustrating days, and never once got a reply. In the end he’d given up; telling himself it wasn’t fair to contact her again. If she and Phil were back together, any overture from him would only be impolitic. So why in God’s name had he changed his mind, or assumed so glibly that this time he’d get through? All he’d done was waste two hours, when the whole point of going by boat had been to avoid these futile stretches of dead time.
He found an empty seat, rammed a cigarette in his mouth, and sat there snapping matches in half, their broken bodies falling on his lap. Two hours was an eternity in this hell-hole. There wasn’t even a drinks machine, let alone a proper bar. He glanced irritably at the people sitting round him– an old gaffer with a cold, constantly honking into his handkerchief, and three frumpy-looking matrons talking with their mouths full as they shared gossip and cheese rolls.
Snatches of their conversation drifted past his ears, continually revolving round the subject of their husbands, children, grandchildren. It must be daunting to be part of such a tribe, bonded so inviolably by ties of blood, of steel. And yet how much worse to be alone, to have spent four days in England and not spoken to a single friend. But that was his own fault. He could have rung a dozen friends if he hadn’t been so apathetic, moping around each evening feeling sorry for himself.
He got up from his seat, too restless to sit still. He could always ring them now. It would be a relief to talk to someone he knew, and would help to pass the time. He stubbed out his cigarette, mooched back to the phone. He’d try Anthony in Cambridge first, catch up with his news. He dialled the number, thinking back to the years they’d spent together: drinking, smoking, discussing books and politics. He’d been out of touch too long; had neglected all his English friends once he’d moved to Paris.
He jumped. An unknown female had answered, breaking into his thoughts; informed him in her drawly voice that Anthony was out.
‘D’you know when he’ll be back?’
‘Sorry – no idea.’
The sense of unreality he’d felt in the hotel began to take a grip again. Was he really standing in this claustrophobic phone-box with a receiver in his hand, or dreaming the whole thing? Perhaps he’d never actually left Paris, and his mother was alive still, waiting for his rat-tat on the door.
He snatched up his address book, began flicking through the pages to find Roberto’s number. His Italian friend was a natural clown, someone who might make him laugh, banter him back to normality.
He inserted another coin and dialled 01 for London, but instead of Roberto’s Kensington exchange, he found he was dialling Streatham – hardly surprising when he’d been programmed in the last four days to follow up 01 with Penny’s number. It was a total waste of time. Why should she answer now, when she’d been out ten minutes ago? He might as well sit down again, do the crossword, read a book. Knowing his luck, Roberto would be out as well – all his friends busy with their lives.
‘Yes, hello?’
He all but dropped the phone. It wasn’t Penny, but another girl who sounded very like her. ‘Er … is … is Penny there?’ he asked.
‘I’m not too sure. Hang on – I’ll go and see.’
He could feel his heart hammering in his chest, cold beads of sweat snailing down his back. Had that been Penny’s sister, or a relative of Phil’s? Even if Penny was in, there was nothing he could say. He rehearsed his lines while waiting in a fever of impatience: he was catching the next ferry and was just ringing to say goodbye; he’d been hoping they could meet, but it wasn’t really possible; he was due back in the office and …
‘Hello?’
Her voice was an electric shock jolting his whole body. How could two brief syllables affect him so profoundly?
‘Hello?’ she said again. The tone was flat, expressionless, with none of her usual verve. ‘Who is it?’ she asked tersely, after a third and increasingly irritable ‘Hello’.
He tried to answer. Failed. She could slay him with one word. If he told her who was speaking, she might say a curt goodbye and slam the phone down. He must get in first, make her understand that he wasn’t being cruel, but they had no choice but to go their separate ways.
Seconds passed as he tried to find his voice. If he didn’t take this chance, he would never dare to ring again. She was beginning to sound quite hostile, threatening to hang up.
‘It’s … Daniel!’ he blurted out, noticing with horror that he was running short of coins. He raked frantically through his pockets for more change. ‘For Christ’s sake don’t ring off, Penny. I’ve got to talk to you.’ He slammed in several tens, drumming his fingers impatiently on the cold impassive metal as he waited for each one to rattle down.
‘Are you there? Penny!’ His voice rose in a howl. She had cut him off, vanished, refused to say so much as …
‘Yes, Daniel, I’m here.’
He struggled to control his voice. It was essential that he sounded calm – not overwrought, hysterical. ‘Penny,’ he said, closing his eyes, to focus his entire attention on the most important question of his life.
‘Penny, will you marry me?’
Chapter Nine
‘Happy anniversary!’ said Daniel, clinking his brandy glass to Penny’s.
‘Happy anniversary – six times!’
‘No, five.’
‘Six,’ insisted Penny. ‘We drank a toast with the sherry, two each with the Perrier and the wine, and now this one with the brandy.’
‘Okay, happy anniversary to my darling gorgeous wife.’
‘That’s seven times – perfect! One for each year.’
He leaned forward, took her hand. ‘You don’t regret them, do you?’
‘Regret what? All the drinks?’
‘No, all the years.’
She smiled and sipped her brandy, her pale cheeks unnaturally flushed from the sultry heat, the wine.
‘Shall we go for a walk?’ he suggested, slightly disconcerted that she hadn’t answered his question. ‘Cool down by the river?’
‘Sober down, don’t you mean?’
‘I’m not pissed.’
‘You must be.’
‘No.’ He shook his head. ‘It was probably all that throat stuff I forced down. Perhaps it diluted the alcohol, or coated my stomach, like milk’s supposed to do.’
Penny spooned half-melted sugar from her empty coffee-cup. ‘Well, something’s worked anyway. Your voice is almost back to normal.’
‘Maybe it’s the country air.’
She glanced out of the window at the jammed and noisy road. ‘Hampton Court’s hardly the country.’
‘It was in Henry VIII’s time. I remember reading once that Wolsey fixed on Hampton for his palace because all his physicians assured him it was the most healthy spot within twenty miles of London. Though I’m afraid the
y wouldn’t think so now,’ he added wryly, grimacing at the traffic. The restaurant was right opposite the palace, and coachloads of tourists were being disgorged at its gates; more coaches lumbering over the bridge towards the congested roundabout.
‘Well, let’s get out anyway and walk off all that food. Come on – finish your coffee.’
Daniel drained his cup, took a last long swig of brandy. ‘I’ll just ask them for the bill.’
‘And I’ll go and have a p–p–pee.’
He grinned and watched her bounce across the room; sat wondering what she did regret. Every anniversary he found himself reflecting on his marriage, always secretly astonished that he had managed to propose at all. He’d had no idea when he’d made that fateful phone call how much turmoil and complication would ensue, and today the memories were surging back unchecked, perhaps because they’d repeated their P-lunch. He could remember really vividly that sense of guilty frustration he’d battled with nine years ago, when he’d wanted Penny as his wife, but was opposed at every turn. Divorce had been just a word to him, and he was pathetically unprepared for the toll it took on Penny, the brute emotions it unleashed in her and Phil, the bitter legal wrangles which hammered on interminably. Even without Phil and both the lawyers, there’d been so many other obstacles – Pippa and her nightmares, his Paris job, his way of life, Penny’s intrusive retinue: the sisters, squatters, nomads, who dropped in and out of the house. Once they were finally married (a minor miracle in itself), he’d insisted that they found a place of their own, and then barred access to the oddballs. He’d also taken a strong line on the dogs and cats and other assorted animals previously allowed the freedom of her sitting-room. Now they had one hamster (in a cage) and a house more or less to themselves.
Of course, he’d had to make his own concessions, some of them quite painful. It had been a wrench to give up Paris and his flat; a total shock to the system exchanging bachelor existence for the roller-coaster of family life. And the work he did now – an admin job in a Third World development agency – was nothing like as challenging as his previous work on illiteracy. But then he couldn’t keep beetling off to Africa with a wife and child in tow, and Penny had hated the thought of him going on his own, or working in a field where there was any element of danger.
‘Your bill, sir.’
He hadn’t seen the waiter stealing up; changed his face from frown to smile as he rummaged for his credit card, suddenly realizing how far he’d come since he’d paid the bill for that first P-lunch in Paris. Many of the problems, which he’d regarded as insuperable, had simply faded into oblivion, or actually been solved.
He added a fat tip, handed over bill and card, then relaxed back in his chair. He was definitely feeling better. The wine had helped, of course, and an indulgent morning lying around in bed; and another heartening thing was that Juliet had receded, temporarily at least, as if she’d had the natural tact and grace to absent herself on his wedding anniversary. From the moment he’d phoned her to cancel lunch (grabbing his chance while Penny was listening to ‘Midweek’ in the bath), he’d experienced a huge relief. Up till then, his mind had been stretched to breaking point by his mistress, daughter, wife – each fighting for more space in it. Juliet had sounded cool. He’d been vaguely hurt by her business like response; would have liked a little sympathy, some concern about his croaky shred of voice. But then he’d received that from his wife. Penny had been up and down the stairs all morning, bringing him antiseptic gargles and hot drinks.
He watched her returning from the ladies’ room, the outline of her figure seductively revealed through the flimsy fabric of her dress. He was seized by a strong urge to have her, there and then; strip off the skimpy sundress and roll her over and over on the restaurant’s plush pink carpet. They could always skip the walk, go straight home to bed. But dare he risk another failure? Juliet’s damned earrings had put paid to his attempt this morning. Thank God he’d persuaded Penny to take them off – they were too dressy for the daytime, he’d told her with (spurious) sartorial authority, and didn’t match her outfit. Lunch would have been intolerable with those traitorous pearls and amethysts dangling just in front of him. The thought alone was enough to kill his desire stone dead. And anyway, he’d drunk too much. All that wine and the remnants of a throat infection might put him off his stroke.
Penny picked up the last chocolate mint, offered him a bite. ‘Why don’t we walk in the palace grounds? I’d love to see the flowers. I bet they’re quite fantastic at the moment.’
He crumpled up his napkin. He had no objection to the flowers – it was the prospect of the trippers which depressed him. He could see them from where he was sitting: trooping in across the bridge, armed with radios and camcorders, manoeuvring their way between the ice-cream vans and hot-dog stands which had sprouted on the pavement; the tacky souvenir stalls selling policemen’s helmets, Union Jacks.
‘It’ll be cooler by the river,’ he said, pushing back his chair.
‘Not so special, though. We’ve got the river any old day, but we haven’t been to Hampton Court in ages.’
‘Okay.’ He ushered her through the door, recoiling from the heat outside, as if from a physical blow. It was her day, after all, and at least the trees would provide some welcome shade.
They crossed the road and walked into the palace grounds through the elaborate wrought-iron gates. There was a queue at the main Gatehouse, so they turned into the rose garden. Daniel caught his breath. He had never seen such a magnificent display. It seemed almost a sin of indulgence to stand neck-deep in roses, feasting on their colours, drinking in their smell. Intoxicated bees were lurching from flower to flower, dazzled, as he was himself, by the fiery reds, vermilions, deep yellows, vibrant pinks. Some bushes were so laden they appeared to be spawning as he watched – each lush bloom bringing forth another.
Penny thrust her nose into a brilliant scarlet tea-rose. ‘We should have brought the empty wine bottle and filled it up with all this gorgeous scent!’ They wandered down the path, examining the tags, reading the names aloud. ‘Mischief, Sensation, Cuisse de Nymphe. That’s French, isn’t it? What does it mean?’
‘Nymph’s thigh.’ He touched the shell-pink petals. Strange how all the names were related to seduction.
“Have you found a Penelope?’
‘Not yet.’ Nor a Juliet, he thought. Perhaps he should take up rose-growing – a new hobby which would anchor him to home. His modest fifteenth of an acre couldn’t rival this extravaganza, but even a few bushes would make a decent show. ‘Oh, look! Here’s one called Guiding Spirit, and another with …’
He was interrupted by a shout – someone calling Penny’s name. They turned to see a tall blonde figure dashing excitedly towards them: a girl in skin-tight jeans and a striped sailor-top.
‘Alison!’
‘Penny!’
The girls hugged each other in delight and some surprise. ‘What are you doing playing truant?’ Penny asked. ‘I thought you had some super-duper job in a swanky office in Mayfair.’
‘Yeah, that’s right. I’m here for work. We’re designing a new brochure on all the London palaces, and I’ve been asked to do the illustrations.’
‘Lucky thing! I never get commissions like that – only deadly boring stuff. You’ll never guess what I’m doing at the moment – drawing men’s Y-fronts for a mail-order catalogue!’
Daniel crushed a rose petal in his hand. Why did Penny always put herself down? Last month she had designed a book jacket for a major publishing house, who’d declared themselves extremely impressed. He was proud of the fact that she was working as an illustrator, and had completed her degree course, notwithstanding all the turmoil of divorce, remarriage, moving house. It was he who had suggested that she re-apply to art school, fulfil her childhood dream.
‘Remember when we came here in the first year?’ Alison was saying. ‘To do that project for the photography course?’
‘Yes, and you brought Matthew in a baby-sling, a
nd he spent the whole day yelling. How is he, by the way?’
‘Still yelling, but no longer in a baby-sling – thank God! How’s Pippa?’
‘Okay.’
Daniel heard the change in Penny’s voice, though Alison was rattling on regardless, relaying news of other students: a successful exhibition, a new baby, a plum job. She had ignored him altogether, but then they’d never really hit it off. He was annoyed that they had run into her at all. Her presence reawakened those unpleasant memories he hoped he’d left behind him in the restaurant. In the first months of their marriage, soon after they’d moved house, Alison had dropped in fairly frequently – always, it seemed, at some inappropriate moment, when Pippa was in the middle of a particularly violent tantrum, or Penny bristling over the latest skirmish with Phil. (Her ex had been living only a mile or two away from them, and continually making trouble. His affair with Khadisha had proved stormy and chaotic, and he was clearly venting his spleen on the world.)
Alison looked much smarter than the scruffy girl he remembered; the once-tousled hair now sleekly groomed; the long limbs shown off to their best by casual but expensive clothes. He had never really understood what Penny saw in her. They’d been thrown together, more or less, as the only two mature students, the only ones with children, in their year. All the rest had come straight from school, and were more concerned with their sex-lives or the latest fashion-craze than with playgroups or the price of children’s shoes.
‘Why don’t we have a cup of tea?’ Alison suggested. ‘Catch up on all our news?’
‘Oh yes!’ said Penny eagerly, turning to Daniel to ask him if he’d mind. How could he object when the two friends hadn’t seen each other in years? After graduation, Alison had gone to work abroad, and had returned to London only a few months ago.
‘That’s fine by me,’ he lied. ‘It’ll give me the chance to have a quick look round the palace. You go and have your tea and I’ll join you in the café in half an hour or so.’
Penny kissed him gratefully, then linked her arm through Alison’s. They had resumed their dialogue before he could so much as say goodbye.
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